


The Real Reason Why Mycroft Is The Only One For Sherlock

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Humor, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Crack, Eventual Fluff, Idiosyncrasy, It's Not That Important For The Story But It's The Background, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft is Sweet, No Eurus Holmes, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Smut, The Fall Never Happened, holmescest, pet peeves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 14:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18448202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock has a problem: everybody is driving him mad. And at the end of this nasty day he is summoned to have dinner with Big Brother.





	1. A Day To Get Crazy About

**Author's Note:**

> This story will tell you more about the author than you ever wanted to know :) All of Sherlock's pet peeves are mine, and there are more. 
> 
> The second chapter will hopefully be finished in a couple of days :)

“Let it be, John!”

“I didn't _do_ anything!”

Sherlock glowered at his flatmate. “Yes, you did! You yawned! Loudly!”

“Because we only got back from the case at five and got only three hours of sleep!”

“ _We_ indeed. _I_ am not yawning and showing you the back of my throat. It's really nothing anyone wants to see. Self-control, John!”

“Sometimes you really worry me, Sherlock.”

“Sometimes you thoroughly _annoy_ me, John.”

John stood up with a frantic gesture of his right hand, making his chair scratch over the kitchen floor with a noise that made Sherlock's teeth rattle.

Sherlock covered his ears with his hands – too late of course. “John! If you do that again, I swear I will strangle you!”

“Well I hope I won't make any disgusting noises then!”

“I hope so too!” Sherlock yelled.

*****

The day didn’t get any better when Mrs Hudson came upstairs to bring them breakfast, muttering 'not your housekeeper' even though even the biggest idiot could see that she indeed was.

Not that Sherlock minded tea and breakfast; he _demanded_ it in fact, but he rolled his eyes at her non-stop wittering. _'Mrs Turner'_ here and _'the married ones'_ there and all this nonsense about people Sherlock hadn't even known – or cared! – existed. He tried to put her on mute but he could feel a nasty headache crawling up on him at her relentless talking.

“Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson!” he finally exploded, earning a very hurt look from the old lady and some nasty throat-clearing from John. “And you - let that be! It's not good for your vocal cords, which you should know as you are a bloody doctor, and it sounds ghastly!”

“Sherlock, you're horrible today!” John hissed.

“Ditto, John!” Sherlock hissed back. “And where did she go?! I need more of this cheese!”

John rolled his eyes in a way usual people shouldn’t be allowed to as it only made them look sillier than ever. “Yes, really, where, Sherlock? Go and apologise to her!”

“I will most certainly not! Is it demanded too much to have breakfast in peaceful silence and not having to listen to non-stop chattering and disgusting body functions?!”

John just snorted and left the table after kicking at a leg of his chair, making Sherlock wince in outrage, and then the detective shovelled the rest of his meal into his mouth, finally having silence but glowering at nobody in particular and already cursing another day surrounded by people without any manners or decency. Somehow it was getting harder and harder – keeping up with other's people's horrendous habits…

*****

Sherlock walked away from the body on the street and started to lecture, knowing everybody was listening in awe. “…and then there are his feet. It's important to… Lestrade, stop that!”

Two huge brown eyes looked at him in confusion. “I didn’t do anything, Sherlock, I was listening…”

“As you should be! But you've been scratching your head!”

“But the examination of the crime scene is already finished! It doesn’t matter if…”

“It does matter to _me_!” Sherlock thundered. He hated the noise of fingernails scratching over a scalp. It was like tiny animals with sharp teeth eating paper and it was just annoying!

“Never mind him, Greg. His Majesty is getting worse and worse with his idiosyncrasy…” John threw in.

“Ah, shut up and listen or this case will forever remain unsolved!” threatened Sherlock, an empty threat as he – and unfortunately everyone else here – knew very well.

The two men mumbled something and stood still nonetheless to his relief, and Sherlock picked up on his lecture – until Donovan showed up, twirling a curl around her forefinger, certainly making her hair all greasy and nasty and spreading it over his crime scene and he didn’t care if the examination was finished or not!

“I can't work like this!” Sherlock exploded. “I'll send you a file with my conclusions! Argh!” And off he was with a whirling coat and a pout that would have shamed every two-year-old.

*****

“Hello.”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope to see another set of huge brown eyes. “Hi.” He returned to his blood sample. What an interesting illness the man had had! Possibly he could…

“What are you looking at?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Did you want anything special, Molly?”

She giggled nervously and the little hairs on the back of his neck started to move upwards. “No, just wondering if you, you know…” She broke off and coyly swayed to the left, then to the right, and then she even nibbled at the cuticle of her right thumb, making him shudder and grimace.

“No, I do _not_ know as you haven’t told me,” Sherlock said and his voice sounded dangerous to his own ears. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Why did everybody have to yap away and do nasty things and trample on his nerves!

And then she did the unspeakable – with flushed cheeks she reached up with her hands, grabbed what was stupidly called a ponytail and took out the hairband and let the long mane flow over her shoulder and then she shook her head and one red-brown hair wafted disgustingly through the air, directly towards Sherlock's face.

With a curse he jumped up and shied away and blew the hair into the opposite direction.

“What… What's wrong?” Molly was all wide eyes and opened mouth and he could actually see her bloody _uvula_!

“This! This is all wrong! I can't… I just can't!” And with this Sherlock stormed out of the small room in St. Bart's Hospital, trying to find some peace and quiet before he would have to return to Baker Street to more yapping and being annoyed to death!

*****

It hadn't been a good idea… It was a beautiful summer day and in the small park Sherlock had fled to were… people! Dozens and hundreds of people! And they were all so bloody loud! They were laughing and screaming and eating ice cream, dripping it all over themselves and the path! Sherlock eyed a bench and grimaced in disgust as he saw footprints and dirt all over it. Who was supposed to sit here?! Certainly not he!

And then he looked down in horror as he felt sticky fingers on his trousers. He didn’t know how he could feel they were sticky through the fabric but he did!

Two big blue eyes (for a change) were staring up to him and a chocolate-smeared mouth turned into a toothless smile.

“Go! Go away!” Sherlock hissed and made a shooing gesture and the smile disappeared, turning into a frown within the blink of an eye. “No! Don't start screaming!” He proceeded to shake the pesky toddler off and then he heard a gasp behind him.

“Hey, are you crazy or what?” _Mummy_ , for sure. A chubby young woman with greasy, blonde hair and clothes Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to be seen dead in – and not just because they were _women's_ clothes! They were from five years ago – at least! – and they were full of unidentifiable dirt! And he could smell her sweat and it almost made him gag.

“Take it away!” he demanded and she loosened the little child's nasty hands from his trouser leg while mumbling incoherent words, probably insults, taking the rosy thing in her arms as if he had threatened to kill it! He hadn't asked for being touched by those ghastly little fingers! With disgust he looked at the dirty fingerprints it had left. This suit had to be dry-cleaned asap! A task for Mrs Hudson if he had ever seen one!

Without listening to _Mummy's_ resentful nagging behind his back, he stormed off. He so had enough of this day and all the _people_!

*****

Somehow the day had gone by… John had been awaiting him in 221B already when Sherlock had stalked into the flat, having a coughing fit for whatever reason, and the bloody man hadn't even covered his mouth with his hand! Sherlock had fled into the bathroom and then hurried under the shower, letting the hot water run over his face, trying to wash off the exasperation along with the sweat of the day, and he had also shaved and then slipped into his robe.

Squeaky clean and smelling deliciously, he had flung himself onto the couch to have a lazy evening – and one just for himself as John had _a date_. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at this expression. How boring! Watching a film with some dull woman! Yawn! He would enjoy being finally by himself and not get bothered by anyone as Mrs Hudson was meeting her bridge ladies, certainly talking them into a coma.

And he had only been sitting for a couple of minutes, zapping through the horrible television program with an increasing frown, when someone knocked at the door of his flat.

His flat. So they had already managed to get into the house even though Sherlock knew the door had been locked.

He sighed deeply. Please not! He briefly considered crawling out of his bedroom window but dismissed it as too much work. He simply waited until the man with the black suit had unlocked the door of the flat and joined him in the living room.

“Hi,” Sherlock greeted the stranger in a bored tone.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. Your car is waiting.”

“I didn’t order a car,” Sherlock said petulantly, as if he didn’t know what this was about.

 The man wasn't impressed. “Please get dressed and follow me.”

Flat tone, almost as bored as his own. Back-slicked hair, his back straightened. Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised if he'd been wearing sunglasses…

“No,” Sherlock said for good measure.

“I'll be waiting in the car.” And with this the man was gone and Sherlock cursed him, his mother, his grandfather and his entire family.

And then he huffed and stalked into his bedroom to get dressed. For a moment he considered just showing up in the robe or in a bedsheet again but he dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t embarrass anyone but himself…

*****

“Ah, Monsieur Sherlock 'olmes?” The receptionist beamed at him with his false white teeth.

“The one and only,” Sherlock mumbled. He glanced around. Of course… Posh French restaurant… Pompous interior, minimalistic servings, huge prizes… He wasn’t in the least surprised. Or pleased.

“Follow me, Monsieur. You are awaited.”

“Of course I am…” Sherlock followed the man who was looking like a penguin into the depths of the room.

His own 'date' for tonight was sitting with his back to the wall, looking at the menu he probably already knew inside out. Places like this one were his natural environment after all… Apart from three or four secret offices and the sodding Palace…

“Ah, Sherlock. Do sit down,” he was greeted by the man in the expensive grey suit with annoying friendliness.

Sighing, he flung himself onto a chair, glancing at the perfectly laid-out table. White table cloth, silver cutlery, boring. “What am I doing here, Mycroft?!” He winced when he heard the shuffling of a chair from a few metres away. Someone's bloody silver cutlery made an awful noise on a plate and he could barely refrain from covering his ears. He didn’t want to be here!

“Having dinner with me, I assume.” His brother sounded completely calm and untouched.

“Why? We never have dinner together!”

“Because you haven't eaten anything all day.”

“You can't know that!”

“Ah? Can I not? Have you cooked anything after coming home from the park? Your fridge contains nothing but human body parts and I do hope you didn’t eat them.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I loathe it when you're spying on me!”

“Do you now?” Mycroft put the menu down and leaned back in his chair. He looked rather exhausted, Sherlock realised. But he was surrounded by the subtle odour of his expensive eau de cologne. Not a hint of sweat after a long day at work and as his briefcase was standing next to his chair, he had clearly come directly from the office. He was even clean shaven. His private bathroom in the Diogenes for sure!

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “S'ghastly. Can look after myself…”

“Of course you can,” Mycroft said with more condescendence than it should be allowed. “May I order for you?” A waiter in a black livre had shown up at their table.

“I won't eat frogs!” Sherlock hissed.

The waiter winced and Mycroft silenced Sherlock with a reprimanding look and ordered in French. A bottle of wine and pasta for both, as far as Sherlock could say. His French was a bit rusty.

Sherlock pulled out his phone when they were alone again. He huffed. Nothing interesting! No text from Lestrade! No exciting serial killings! It was a disgrace!

A bottle was brought and the waiter provided them both with a glass full of dark-red wine. Sherlock sipped at it. Not bad. But his brother would never order bad wine. He would in all probability prefer dying of thirst to drinking wine that was anything short of excellent.

“Mummy called me today,” Mycroft finally put in words why he had Sherlock really kidnapped to have dinner with him.

Sherlock shrugged. “Better you than me.”

Mycroft lost a bit of his calm demeanour but his voice wasn’t raised when he accused, “You spoke with her yesterday! And you were very impolite to her!”

“Did I? Was I? Must have deleted it…” Sherlock glanced at the long fingers that were holding the delicate glass in grip that was a tad too firm. Very long, very elegant fingers indeed… Just like his own, of course.

“She said you'd scolded her…” Mycroft said it as if he couldn’t believe Sherlock had dared do this.

“She was snuffling!” he hissed, recalling the conversation all too well. “It was disgusting!”

“She has a cold!”

“That's no excuse!”

Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock sulked.

They were silent until their meals were served. Pasta indeed. With vegetables. At least he hoped the green pieces were all just vegetables. He poked at one of them.

“There are no frogs in it!” Mycroft hissed and Sherlock's mouth twitched.

This was fun, he had to admit. More fun than he'd had all day. Or last week. Or the past two months. Or… He started to eat. Yes, it was edible. Good stuff. Better than John's cooking for sure.

He glanced at his brother, who had started eating as well. He looked as perfect as ever. Bespoke suit, the colour of his tie matching the colour of his eyes. Not a hair out of place. Sherlock compared him to Lestrade with his ill-fitting suits that were always too tight around the broad shoulders, and the messy hair. And John, oh dear. Hair like a hedgehog and those awful jumpers!

Mycroft wasn't making any noise while he was eating, Sherlock suddenly realised. No scratching on the plate. No loud chewing. No loud _breathing_. Even when he did something as profane as eating he was pure sophisticated elegance. Arrogance too, yes, but that did run in the family; Sherlock was the first to admit it.

These hands… The nails perfectly manicured, not a hint of dirt under them. If he thought of Anderson's nails… He shuddered. These long legs. Not moving in some unnerving rhythm. Perfectly calm. He never reached up to scratch his head. He didn’t fumble with his nose or his hair.

All about him was perfect. It was impressive! And hateful! And challenging!

Sherlock suddenly had the picture of a Mycroft with sweaty, tousled hair, panting and groaning, totally deranged. Where had this come from?! He felt his cheeks flush and poured down his wine to cool himself. It didn’t really help…

Mycroft looked up and gave him a confused look.

Sherlock winced at having got caught and then he did the unthinkable – he didn’t watch the movements of his hand for a moment and his fork scratched over the sodding plate! The awful noise made him cringe and groan, and it also made Mycroft cringe! His brother grimaced as if his teeth were hurting every bit as Sherlock's after this horrible mishap but he didn’t say a word.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft used his tissue to wipe his mouth in the most delicate way. “That can happen.”

It really couldn’t! Why was he so tolerant! It irked him every bit as much as Sherlock; it was impossible to miss. “I want to come with you for tonight.” Had he just said this? Was he going mad?

Mycroft tilted his head and gave him a look full of confusion. And concern. Concern? Yes… “Why would you want that?” he asked in a disbelieving tone.

“John. He might bring a woman home. And we had a row before he left.” John had never brought a woman home and damn, Mycroft had to know that! He had them under surveillance for God's sake! But yes, he and John had constantly rowed today…

“I see,” Mycroft slowly said. “Well, of course you can come with me. The guest room is all yours. It has always been…”

He had offered this again and again over the years, Sherlock recalled. Whenever he had been struggling with his preference for drugs (not addiction! He was a _user_ , not an _addict_!), Mycroft would offer him to stay with him so he could recover, feel better, whatever. Sherlock had never accepted this offer. He had been sure Mycroft wouldn’t want him to stay with him anyway, apart from controlling him.

But somehow he didn’t believe that anymore. Of course Mycroft wanted to control him, too; he would always want that. But hadn't he just seemed genuinely pleased that Sherlock had asked him for taking him home? And more than a bit sad that Sherlock had never wanted this before?

“Let's go then.” Mycroft stood up. He seemed to be in a hurry now – as if he thought Sherlock could change his mind if he let him wait…

“What about the bill?”

“It will be taken care of,” Mycroft said suavely and touched his elbow when they walked towards the exit.

Sherlock felt something like a tiny electric shock at the touch and once more a picture of a sex-deranged Mycroft popped up in his mind.

How would it be like? How would Mycroft behave? Would he really let himself go and get all noisy and… human? Or would he be completely composed even then? And why was he thinking about this at all?! He loathed being touched. And yet he had definitely liked the small touch of Mycroft's hand a moment ago. He never had sex! And still he could imagine it so vividly as if they'd already done it…

“Just one moment,” Mycroft said and then a waiter provided him with his coat and his umbrella. Sherlock had foregone putting on his Belstaff as it was such a warm day but his brother without his uniform – unthinkable!

But Sherlock suddenly wanted nothing more than peeling him out of it, layer by layer!

“We can go,” Mycroft said, sounding a bit insecure, and damn, when had his smug brother ever sounded insecure?

“Fine,” Sherlock said, hurrying out of the restaurant and towards the car that had brought him here. He had no idea what he was doing but he was determined to do it nonetheless.


	2. A Night In Heaven

“Sherlock, what?!” Mycroft sounded and looked as if he was close to suffering a mental breakdown or perhaps he was actually just having one. He was still holding the bottle of expensive whiskey in his now shivering hand, having poured both of them a stiff drink while Sherlock had excused himself to go to the bathroom as soon as they had arrived in Mycroft's house.

Speaking of stroking – Sherlock would have stroked himself to an erection if his cock hadn't got up all by itself while he had been undressing, shivering from anticipation at an evening about to get very interesting. It just looked better if a man was in an erect state when he was walking around naked, Sherlock thought. And of course he was about to make a point after all! A _big_ point!

And he had watched his brother's reaction to his impressive erection and nudity very closely when he had entered the living room, shock being the first and expected reaction. Mycroft hadn't seen him naked since he'd been five and been running around in the garden, he estimated. And then his brother's look had darted southwards and his pupils had blown even wider before he had focused on Sherlock's face a second later. But too late to hide that he had liked what he was seeing! And Sherlock hadn’t missed the slight tenting of his trousers either… Or his dark-red cheeks…

The detective was very happy with this development, sure that nobody had caused the smug string puller to be out of his depth at such a level ever before and enjoying his hidden admiration that was very promising for the rest of this evening.

After standing in the door in his full glory for a long moment, he walked over to the table and his brother and took one of the glasses. “Cheers!”

“But…”

Sherlock took a sip of the fine whiskey and rolled his eyes in appreciation. “Fine stuff. Do you want to go to the bedroom or will the couch be sufficient?”

“What…”

“Ah stop this unintelligent babbling, brother, or I'd have to think you're not better than the average goldfish! And don't pretend you don't want it, too.” Suddenly he recalled this infamous day with the bedsheet. “I could feel someone staring at my bum when you dragged me into the sodding Palace back then for the Adler case! Of course it wasn't John! He sees me running around almost naked all the time and it doesn’t interest him in the least! And your friend Harry? He's the typical all-straight guy who would never pay attention to another man's arse! Married with three… no, four children, right?”

He tilted his head but Mycroft didn’t answer, still staring at him in utter shock. “So there's only one person left! You!” he added, just in case Mycroft had forgotten that it had only been the four of them. “You've already wanted me back then!” How could he have missed that! An unforgivable slipping! And then another idea hit him. “And – _aha_! You were jealous of Irene! Not just devastated about me deciphering that bloody email for her! And it wasn't my proudest day, I give you that. But you thought I was interested in her! Please! It was her _chutzpah_ that fascinated me, not her bony body!”

“You saved her!” Mycroft finally brought out a full sentence, and he sounded rather accusatory.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. How resentful this man was! “Yeah, I knew you would get that. So what – I don't like women to be beheaded! Doesn’t mean I want to beget them! Her fingernails and her lipstick, brrr. And her… _things_ up there! Ghastly! Anyway! Bedroom?” After all his brother was middle-aged and might prefer the convenience of his bed over the couch. Sherlock was quite proud of himself at being so sensitive towards Mycroft's needs.

“But why?!” Mycroft blurted, shaking his head. “You've hated me all your adult life! You've been awful to me ever since I've sent you to rehab!”

“Ah! Stop raking up this ancient nonsense! You're perfect for me. You look good, you smell good, you don't repulse me with your eating habits and you don't have any ghastly manners and of course you're smarter than anybody else out there so I can even talk to you!” Sherlock looked at him expectantly but his brother was just staring at him again.

Sherlock huffed. He wouldn’t convince his brother with arguments! Mycroft was still a Queen-serving old borer after all. God knew how many people he had let killed by some nameless agents but doing something indecent? Unthinkable! But not anymore! Sherlock had chosen him and that was that. And obviously his brother had been leering after him for bloody years anyway! And now he would get what he desired! And so would Sherlock!

He grabbed Mycroft's neck and planted a kiss on his rosy lips. Oh yes, his brother tasted every bit as good as he had expected. The wine and the pasta of course but underlying was his own scent and it was definitely pleasant.

His hand found his brother's arse and he pinched it, making Mycroft yelp against his lips. Oh yes! Nice and firm and round! And what was poking against his groin was far from being tiny, he could tell that! Sherlock was very pleased with his choice.

But why the heck wasn't Mycroft kissing him back? He pulled away and glowered at him. “What's the matter?”

“Please, Sherlock. Don't… Don't break my heart,” Mycroft whispered and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

All this _'caring is not an advantage'_ and _'alone protects us'_ and _'all hearts are broken'_ bollocks suddenly got a completely different meaning! Poor Mycie-Boy was afraid of getting his own precious heart broken! “Don't worry,” Sherlock said soothingly to the Not-Iceman. “Your heart is in the best of hands with me!” That brought him an insultingly doubtful look.

Sherlock sighed and took his brother's hand. “Bedroom, I'd say. Don't want to fall off your couch and I bet it would creak and we wouldn’t want to hurt your pretty back!”

*****

Of course the large bed was perfectly made, the linen fresh and clean; Sherlock had expected no less. He had never been in his brother's bedroom before and it was a shame he had never taken the time to rummage through his belongings. What might he find in these drawers? Porn films? Pictures of himself? Love letters that Mycroft had written to him but never sent?

It didn’t matter now though. He had to be quick now before Mycroft could get up his shields and tell him nonsense like _'we can't do that, it's forbidden'_ or _'I would feel guilty if I had sex with you'_. Sherlock couldn’t force him to do anything after all and he really wouldn’t want that anyway; he was a gentleman after all. Mycroft was perfect for him and obviously Mycroft thought the same about him even though he would have never had the courage to actually act on it. Luckily for them, Sherlock had enough courage for the two of them and they would make up for the wasted time!

He was fumbling with Mycroft's shirt buttons as soon as his brother had let himself fall onto the bed with a dazed look. He looked frightened and horribly nervous but also as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Which was good!

“There you go,” Sherlock mumbled when he peeled the shirt from his brother's body. “Oh! Hairy!” He stroked over the bare chest and realised the hair was soft and wiry at the same time. It almost covered the big pink nipples and Sherlock's cock got a little harder when he brushed over one of them with his forefinger. He hadn't expected Mycroft to be that hirsute (when he had seen Mycroft naked last, he had been a chubby boy of twelve) but somehow he didn’t feel put off by it. Quite the opposite, actually.

Mycroft gasped when Sherlock pushed him onto the bed backwards, deftly opening his trousers and immediately pulling them down, exposing a huge bulge in his black boxer briefs.

The younger brother hummed in appreciation. “Big, aren't we?” The trousers flew to the side, followed by his socks (no sweaty feet, thank God!) and then he freed his motionless brother from his last remaining bit of clothing and admired the sight of a large, plump penis with its foreskin already pulled back to expose a wide, red, glistening head that looked surprisingly edible. He did hope Mycroft would eventually wake up from his stupor and start moving; otherwise this first encounter would get rather challenging. But at least he wasn’t objecting to what Sherlock was doing and was just watching him in awe.

*****

Mycroft's head was spinning. Was this really happening? Was his little brother, in his birthday suit but with a huge erection as addition, just sniffing at his neck and nodding in satisfaction? Was he seriously kissing his way down to his nipples, and, oh God, sucking at the left one while tweaking the right one? And was his hand, this beautiful, long-fingered violinist's hand, seriously wrapping around his almost painfully throbbing cock?

How had this happened? And so quickly? He had taken Sherlock to dinner because their mother had been so upset about his weird behaviour. Even weirder than usual... All right, and because he hadn't seen him for much too long… After the Adler-disaster, Mycroft had never asked Sherlock for his help on a case again. Not only because of the slipping with the plane but… Mycroft couldn’t have endured another Irene in Sherlock's life… Who knew who would pop up during an investigation? The appearance of another fascinating personality that would get Sherlock's attention could never be ruled out. Of course his brother could meet someone like this on any given day but then it wouldn’t have been Mycroft's own fault…

Oh, he had desired his brother for ages. Sherlock had been tender eighteen years old when Mycroft had first got aware of his unnatural feelings for him. In a drug den, above all. Sherlock had been half naked and completely out, lying on the dirty floor like a corpse, and for a short horrible moment Mycroft had thought his beautiful little brother was actually dead. But then Sherlock had opened his mouth a little, his wonderful, fascinatingly shaped mouth, and Mycroft had caught himself wishing to kiss it like the Sleeping Beauty…

The feelings had never gone away, no matter how much he had been trying to suppress them, to chase them back into the hell they had come from. They had never done him the favour and tortured him ever since…

He had hidden them behind a superior attitude and constant reprimanding of Sherlock, the young man who had liked drugs way too much. As a result Sherlock had been increasingly nasty to him and hurt him with caustic remarks whenever their paths had crossed, and the rest of their brotherly relationship had gone down the hill.

A few months ago they had worked on the case of Jim Moriarty together though, ending with the criminal dying from a shot out of a policeman's weapon when he had been provoked by Sherlock to attempt killing the Prime Minister. And Sherlock had even asked Mycroft with a twinkle afterwards if he would have really been unhappy if Moriarty had succeeded - a short and wonderful brotherly moment Mycroft would never forget and which had received a special place in the floor of his mind palace that belonged to Sherlock. But soon after this precious spark of friendliness everything had been back to what passed for 'normal' – a more than complicated, resentful relationship…

And now? Now Sherlock was stroking his cock! Had he perhaps hit his head and was hallucinating this entire situation? He groaned when Sherlock's thumb wiped over his slit probingly. No. No hallucination could feel this good. And… “Sherlock! You… Oh…” Had his brother really lapped up the little pearl that had appeared on the head of his prick? He had…

“I knew you'd taste great,” Sherlock mumbled, a pleased smile on his face. And then he proceeded to take Mycroft's cock into his mouth – the entire length at once… And an impressive length it was...

The next moment he was gagging and his eyes were watering, and he pulled away with a loud slurping noise, looking completely embarrassed.

“Oh, wait.” Mycroft quickly took a tissue out of the box on his nightstand and wiped the spit from Sherlock's chin.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled uncharacteristically meekly, apologising to him for the second time on this evening – and probably the second time _ever_ …

“It's something you need some practice for. Or… was it so bad for you to do this?” It made him sick that his little brother had aimed to please him orally and might have found it appalling.

“No! You taste great! It just triggered my gag reflex…” Sherlock looked as if he hated his body for betraying him like this.

“You'll need to go slowly. May I… May I show you?” Was he offering his little brother a blowjob? And why did he keep on asking himself these redundant questions?! He was here and this was really happening!

“Oh, please,” Sherlock said and flung himself onto the bed, jumping a bit on the thick mattress. “Even your bed is perfect,” he mumbled and Mycroft smiled.

How much he loved this man… This brilliant, weird, stunning, complicated, beautiful, special young man. And finally, finally he was allowed to show him…

*****

Sherlock was melting into a puddle on Mycroft's cloud-like bed. Of course – his perfect brother was also perfect at giving head! While Sherlock himself had given a poor performance to say the least. Ghastly! His brother wasn’t slurping like a horse drinking from its trough! Like everything else, he delivered a mind- and groin-blowing blowjob with enviable dignity and skill.

It felt awesome and his lower half seemed to be on fire – and then he recalled his image from half an hour ago and reached out to mess up his brother's impeccable hair. He almost expected the fine black hairs to fall back into their previous position but no – Mycroft was all rumpled now, as well as thoroughly flushed, and damn did it look adorable... Adorable?! He hadn't used this word in all his life! Except for a puppy maybe. Certainly.

Mycroft looked up and gave him a worried look but when he saw Sherlock's pleased smile the corners of his mouth turned up and he resumed his task of sucking him into heaven.

Sherlock really didn't want to come so fast; he hadn't forgotten his wish to see his brother not only tousled and with red cheeks but sweaty and groaning and grunting. But he was still young – he could get it up again tonight! So when Mycroft devilishly worked his tongue under his foreskin and twirled it around his swollen knob, he succumbed to the fantastic feeling and pumped his seed into his brother's mouth with a high-pitched cry that had to sound awful, too late recalling that he should have perhaps warned him that he was reaching his crisis.

But of course Mycroft didn't even flinch and took his load with his usual dignified demeanour, swallowing everything Sherlock was giving him and even licking him clean afterwards.

Sherlock had collapsed into the pillows, panting as if he'd been following a criminal through all of London. He was feeling thoroughly spent and boneless – and... happy? Yes... This had been a really endearing experience. And then Mycroft lay down next to him and pulled him close and he dizzily put his head onto his brother's hairy chest, feeling his heartbeat under his ear. "Thank you," he mumbled. "Just give me a moment and then I'll return the favour. Now I know how to do..."

*****

Mycroft saw and heard his brother falling asleep from one second to the other. Exhausted from his first orgasm inflicted on him by a human being as Mycroft was sure.

He waited for the guilt he should be feeling at having this let happen – a sexual encounter with his own baby brother whom he loved and had sworn to protect from the moment he had first laid eyes on him.

But the feeling didn't come. Perhaps he had exhausted it already over the past years? Instead he felt nothing but tenderness and gratitude to have made this experience he would never forget, memorised in the centre of his mind palace, a wonderful memory, a sacred one even, surrounded by imaginary candles, to be worshipped for all times.

Sherlock would have certainly been appalled at his sentimental thoughts but no matter how much Mycroft had preached to him that sentiment was a weakness that had to be avoided at all costs – he had never meant sentiment between the two of them. In fact he who had been longing for his brother for so long had selfishly tried to keep Sherlock from falling for someone else... He had realised that with deep shame a long time ago. And it had seemed to work until John Watson had shown up on the scene. Sherlock had not fallen in love with him but he liked the doctor way too much for Mycroft's taste... And then Irene... He had never been happier to have been proven wrong than when Sherlock had told him he had not desired her.

And now Sherlock seriously desired _him_? Because he didn't have any disgusting habits? Because he was smart? It hadn't sounded like _love_ exactly... But Mycroft would gladly take everything Sherlock was willing to give him. And never demand more. Everything that counted was Sherlock's safety, wellbeing and happiness. And if Sherlock woke up and left without a word, he would retreat to his position at the periphery of Sherlock's life, watching over him, caring for him and saving him whenever necessary and allowed.

His erection had wilted in the meantime and he didn't mind it. He simply held his sleeping little brother, delighted to be allowed to, and eventually he dozed off as well.

*****

When Sherlock woke up, he needed a moment to understand where he was and why he was here. For a second he was confused by the warm, hairy flesh under his cheek but then he felt his brother's arms around him and nodded in agreement.

Slowly raising his head, he watched the sleeping man who was slightly… snoring! His pink lips were parted and a little damp and probably he was very close to starting to drool.

It should have been appalling but somehow it really wasn't. It was rather... cute. Cute! Adorable, cute - what was going on here?

Sherlock couldn't dwell on this thought, too busy staring at his _(cute and adorable)_ big brother in the pale light of the lamp, feeling something strange happening to his throat. And his chest! What was that? Sentiment! He? Sherlock Holmes?! What would come next – throwing little children like the one in the park earlier today in the air and catch it with a silly smile?

Nah. Nothing else had changed. He would never be able to endure people who ate like barbarians or farted or did any other ghastly things and if he threw a toddler into the air it would only be for an experiment. But this... This was different.

Almost by itself his right hand reached out to gently stroke over his brother's bottom lip, making him twitch a little in his sleep. How soft his lip was. How handsome he was with his features so peaceful during sleep. He looked young and pretty and Sherlock couldn't help but raise his head to kiss him on the lips.

Mycroft woke up, visibly startled, and stared at him before his confused and alarmed look turned into one of deep affection. And Sherlock's heart melted. He saw love where others only got to see ice. Finally he saw his brother like he really was – a powerful, merciless man, cunning and cold – and the complete opposite when it came to him, Sherlock. Hadn't he always had power over his older brother? Hadn't he always known he could have anything from him? He had...

Flashes of their childhood ghosted through his mind; summer days and boring Christmas dinners. Bright or dark, hot or cold, exciting or dull – his brother had always been at his side, sharing his joy or lightening up the dark days of boredom and sulking by providing distraction and keeping him busy with intellectual challenges or experiments. Sherlock had long surpassed him in the latter but Mycroft would always be his superior in providing care and a safe haven far away from all the annoyance and noise and people, giving him all his attention and all his... love, and finally he understood and finally he could take what had been offered so freely for all this time that had been wasted with resentment and estrangement.

His eyelid twitched at these unknown and almost unbearable waves of sentiment and he couldn't have put any of his thoughts and feelings in words if he had tried for hours but thankfully, this was _Mycroft_ , the man who still knew him better than anyone else and could see right through his stunned and scared expression and grasp all he was thinking. He responded to it with disbelief at first but then Sherlock saw nothing but joy and hope in his brother's face and there was nothing left to do than crashing their mouths together in a fierce, messy kiss.

***** 

Mycroft had never felt like this in all his life. Sherlock had straddled his lap and he had sat up, curling his arms around his brother's naked body. Sherlock was feeling so smooth and warm and lively and Mycroft didn't know what to touch first. He closed his eyes in awe when his hands were closing around two plush cheeks and Sherlock's fully erect cock grinded firmly against his own hard length. He took them both in hand and stroked them firmly, making Sherlock moan against his neck. Again the world outside with its rules and challenges and coldness seemed to have vanished for good, leaving them on a lonesome island full of desire, hunger, and love.

Because that was what he had seen in Sherlock's eyes to his endless surprise when he had woken up. Probably Sherlock would not put it in words so soon if at all, probably not even to himself, but words were not needed where feelings were so strong they showed on the face of a man who had always claimed to have none.

Panting and feeling aroused to a point he had never found himself at before, he urged Sherlock to come even closer, allowing his cock to find the space between his little brother's glorious globes. His throbbing appendage screamed for just sinking into him but of course he would never do that, instead frantically rubbing up and down his hot crack, his rich pre-seminal fluid easing the way, his efforts making Sherlock groan and himself shudder in pleasure every time he touched his tender hole.

He was close to spilling his release when Sherlock reached his second climax that night with a groan, showering his stomach with his hot semen, his hands almost painfully cramping into his shoulders.

Sherlock collapsed against him when he had finished shuddering through his orgasm, but when Mycroft proceeded to press him close, he pulled away.

"No! Your turn now!" he exclaimed, blinking rapidly against the tiredness that was obviously about to overwhelm him again, and slid down on the bed to take him into his mouth with a determined look on his face.

There was a hint of teeth and some slurping noises and a muffled curse and flushed cheeks but very soon Sherlock found the right rhythm to blow him into the stratosphere.

*****

Yes! This was exactly what Sherlock had wanted to see! Well, it was hard to see _anything_ from his position and he had to go painfully cross-eyed to manage but Mycroft's expression of utter ecstasy, combined with his dark cow slick falling rampantly into his face, was very satisfying for the already physically very satisfied Sherlock. Now Mycroft was all human and flushed and stunned, pearls of sweat on his forehead, and Sherlock caught himself wanting to lap them up. Unthinkable with anyone else! Well, of course he wouldn’t have given _head_ to anyone else either obviously!

The scientist in him was busy storing all the weird and wild odours and tastes and the odd texture in his mind palace but the man in him was simply enjoying the messy, primal act he was performing, after the first embarrassing moments of biting and slurping apparently sucking his brother in a way that made him wild. And who would have thought there was a wild side in Mycroft! A sexual, frantic, needy side, unleashed by Sherlock's first (but definitely not last) attempt at a blowjob.

The man who practically lived behind a desk, shushing his minions around to do the abhorrent legwork and brooding over threats and manipulations and schemes his brilliant brain had to hatch on any given day was all flesh and need now, reduced to the sexual being Sherlock had never even considered either of them could be.

It didn’t only make him proud to be able to make Mycroft moan and pant and sweat in exactly the way he had pictured it in the restaurant – it touched him in the unspeakable place people were always serenading about. He had to admit that yes, he did have a heart and it was doing very strange things right now. They were strange, disconcerting and scary but weirdly enough not unwelcome nor in need to be fought. Even at this point of their suddenly so changed relationship Sherlock knew that there wouldn’t be a safer place for his heart than his brother's hands (and the scientist in him was rolling his eyes about this very unscientific picture).

Sherlock did recall that Mycroft had always watched out for him, had always been there for him, and would always be, and the trust he'd had in his big brother as a little boy had seamlessly (albeit after a long phase of stupid resentment) transferred into the trust in the man he…

“God, Sherlock,” Mycroft brought out now, a fine line of spit glistening on his bottom lip that was bearing the bite marks of frantically being gnawed on, “I'm coming.”

Sherlock assumed he was supposed to pull back but of course he didn’t. Mycroft had not done it so he wouldn’t do it either. He went on sucking eagerly and then Mycroft cried out and a large spurt of bitter, hot and sticky fluid shot into Sherlock's mouth, and he closed his eyes in horror when his gag reflex was triggered seriously. He pulled away, coughing, retching, tears running over his cheeks, and only just and with all the force he could muster he could refrain from throwing up (and vomiting was the very _epitome_ of things he hated) but instead finally swallowing the part of Mycroft's release that had actually found its way into his throat; the rest of it was sticking to Sherlock's face and neck and probably everywhere around him.

It was the single most embarrassing moment of his life and he was close to howling in shame.

But after what seemed to have been ages but had only been a couple of seconds he was pulled against his brother's chest, and a warm hand was gently wiping tears, spit and sperm from his face.

“My darling boy, it's all right,” Mycroft mumbled against his cheek. “Nobody can do this so easily at the first try; and of course you'll never have to do it again if you don't want to and…”

“I do!” Sherlock rasped out, realising a hair was sticking in his throat. God – sex was really a massively messy matter! But there was no way he would miss out on it just because he had behaved like a complete idiot right now! “Next time I'll do better!”

“Of course you will, Sherlock. But if you don't want to…”

“Shut up, Mycroft! I want this and I want to do this again and again and I l…” Sherlock broke off, terrified to have almost spoken out what he had almost thought just a minute ago.

And Mycroft looked at him with so much tenderness that his heart threatened to explode into millions of little pieces. “My lovely boy. My sweet, lovely boy.”

Sherlock let himself sag against him, disarmed by the overwhelming affection in his brother's voice, and let himself be held and petted, rubbing his hot face against Mycroft's neck, kissing his sweaty flesh, and he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else with anybody else. Well, he would have preferred not having messed things up so badly obviously but right now it didn’t seem to matter.

“What do you think,” Mycroft finally broke the sweet, peaceful silence, “shall we have a shower together?”

“I've never needed it more!” Sherlock exclaimed with utter conviction and Mycroft smiled, urging him to get up.

“Come then, little brother. Would you like to stay overnight?”

Sherlock, standing next to the bed, felt another warm glowing in his chest. “I'd love to.” _And I love you…_ Still he didn’t say it but of course he didn’t have to. Mycroft's look told him he could hear his unspoken words.

And it didn’t surprise him in the least. His brother was just _perfect_ – his mind, his manners, his soul. If sophisticated and cool, all messy in sexual passion or providing care and comfort – this man was the one for him and he was happier than he could ever say that this day of annoyance and terror had turned into a night in heaven - the first of many nights like this.

 

 


End file.
